


No

by yeaka



Category: Andromeda (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 22:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8914927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Rhade has willpower, unlike some people.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “Greedy / Desperate” prompt on [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/149673766130/fic-bingo).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Andromeda or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They’re already making out when Harper shoves Telemachus against the wall, and Telemachus goes with a grunt and a stifled grin of amusement—it’s always vaguely _funny_ , even in situations like this, when Harper tries to push him around. He allows it because he likes the way Harper flattens into him, writhes against him, and struggles up on tip-toes to reach his mouth. But Telemachus is careful not to return the favour, because if he threw Harper around like he wanted, the Andromeda would be down one vital crewmember.

“ _Please_ ,” Harper mutters between kisses, each more fervent than the last, voice breathless and overcome with a needy, desperate whine, “I _need_ it, fuck me—”

Telemachus shuts Harper up with a longer-lasting kiss, one hand fisting in Harper’s spiky hair. He tries to hold Harper’s mouth against him so Harper can’t worm away and start pleading again for something Telemachus won’t give. Harper keens against his mouth and bucks against him, Telemachus arched down to give it. His other arm loops firmly around Harper’s waist, holing Harper tightly in, but he resists the urge to hump Harper back. He’s always careful of not using too much force, even though Harper tests him. Harper writhes wantonly in his arms and bites at his lips, sucks at his tongue, employs every trick in the book, then finally bites hard enough to draw blood.

Telemachus jerks back with a hiss, and Harper uses the newfound freedom to beg, “Do it, Rhade, you know I want it, want it so bad—” Telemachus slams in for another kiss, heedless of the blood. He feeds it into Harper’s mouth and enjoys the way Harper winces at the taste. It’s his own fault. A little blood isn’t enough to put Telemachus off. He can hardly feel the split in his lip. All he can think about is the blush on Harper’s cheeks, the extreme dilation of his eyes, the way his lashes dip low and his lips feel wet and kiss-swollen. His face, his skin, his whole body’s burning hot. He has no shame. He digs his fingers hard into Telemachus’ chest, crinkling the black shirt there, and escapes to hiss again, “ _Fuck me_!”

Telemachus growls, “No,” like he does every time, and jerks Harper back by the hair when he tries to bite Telemachus’ lips again. He’s an irritating little deviant, but he’s almost irresistible when his hormones are blazing, when he’s trembling with lust and pleading like he’d do _anything_ to be filled. He probably would. Telemachus has one fleeting flicker of doubt—did Tyr fuck him? It would be so easy. For all of Harper’s griping, he’s not picky about what race he gets his cock from. If Tyr really did used to plough Harper senseless, there’s no point in Telemachus holding back—maybe Harper really _could_ handle a dick nearly as big as his arm, maybe he could survive being fucked hard on the floor, ravaged and pounded to the brink of consciousness—

But Telemachus won’t take that chance. He relinquishes his hold on Harper’s hair to dart a hand between his legs, sternly cupping his crotch. Harper cries out, bucking forward and squirming, and Telemachus kneads him through the thick fabric—he’s rock-hard, the outline of his cock easy to trace. Telemachus rubs it with unrelenting strength and drinks in every greedy twitch of Harper’s body. Harper buries his face in Telemachus’ neck and moans, “No, want you _in me_ , come on, why won’t you just _fuck me already_? You know I want it!” Telemachus punishes the outburst with a harsh squeeze, and Harper sobs, “Damnit, you stupid uber, just—”

That’s enough. Telemachus spins them around with ease, shoving Harper up against the wall of his quarters. He’s careful not to crush Harper to death against it, though it’s so tempting to just _smash them together._ Harper only moans louder at the show of strength, his hands now roaming all over Telemachus’ chest, then dipping under his shirt, sliding up his abs, tracing each line of muscle—Telemachus tries to keep them clothed, because if they actually get _naked_ , if he actually gets a bare Harper pleading at his feet, he doesn’t know how long he’ll last. He grits his teeth and growls, working Harper’s cock the whole time, “I _can’t_. I’d break you in two...”

Harper mutters, “Coward,” and kisses him, hard, only to pull back after and insist, “I’m not gonna come until you fuck me.” He’s such a liar. He’ll never last. The desire soaking his features completely ruins the effect of his anger. But Telemachus is hard himself, and he knows if he doesn’t end it soon, this affair is going to get out of hand. 

So he drops right to his knees, leaving Harper no time to do anything but squeak in surprise. He yanks Harper’s pants down so hard that he hears a seam rip, but Harper brought it on himself and probably won’t care. His erection bounces up as soon as it’s free of the fabric, jutting out, flushed a vivid pink with a dripping head crowning through the foreskin. It’s a decent size for a human. 

But it’s nothing for a Nietzschean, and Telemachus lunges forward, opening his mouth wide and taking the entire length straight down his throat. He slides right to the base in one quick thrust, and Harper absolutely _screams_ , buckling forward with his fists rushing into Telemachus’ hair. Telemachus hollows his cheeks in a hard suck, his tongue lapping at the underside, and then he withdraws, only to push forward again, bobbing up and down with an efficient ease. Harper’s ragged voice has become completely unintelligible, but he’s still begging and crying and swearing anyway. It barely takes a full minute for Harper to shriek himself hoarse and burst in Telemachus’ mouth, spraying right down his throat and jerking against his face. Telemachus swallows it all—the pitiful amount humans give—and suckles a little afterwards, just to make sure his point is made. He doesn’t pull off until Harper’s raw and moaning. 

Then he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and climbs back to his feet, just as Harper collapses. Telemachus catches him and uses one hand to pin his boneless form to the wall, the other reaching down to jerk his pants back up.

Harper’s a wreck. Even more so than usual. He’s panting for air and swaying on the spot, easy for Telemachus to scoop up into his arms. He carries Harper over to the door of his quarters, because he has his own business to take care of now, and it’d be better if Harper’s inviting hole wasn’t in arm’s reach for that.

He dumps Harper unceremoniously into the hallway. Harper tries to clutch at his shirt, but Telemachus rips away. He gingerly pecks Harper’s forehead and tries to think of something to say that will neither discourage this from happening again nor encourage Harper to want _more_. 

But nothing comes to mind, so he just steps back into his quarters and lets the door shut behind him.


End file.
